


Pudding

by dormiensa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 5 Times, F/M, Fluff, Humour, Mild Language, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 19:19:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormiensa/pseuds/dormiensa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The four times that Christmas puddings were disasters for Hermione and the one time it wasn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pudding

**Author's Note:**

> Deepest thanks to withdrawnred and unseenlibrarian for brainstorming sessions and their fabulous beta skills!

** White Horse **

 

Hermione was excited.

 

It was Stir-up Sunday, and they were going to Gran’s.  She’d been told that she was— _finally!_ —old enough to stir the mixture _on her own_ while making her wish.  For the first five years of her life, Mummy had helped her do the stirring and made wishes on her behalf during the first two.  But not this year!  She was six years old now, A Big Girl, and could do it all herself. 

 

As soon as Daddy cut the engine, she practically tore up the short drive.  Granddad was already waiting at the door with a huge smile.  Hermione gave him a kiss and only whimpered a little when his hug was too tight. 

 

“There’s my Hermione!” said Gran, coming out of the kitchen.  She accepted an enthusiastic hug and kiss.  “Now, young lady, are you ready to help me make our Christmas pudding?”

 

“Yes!”

 

For the next hour, Hermione stood on her special chair by the kitchen counter and helped prepare the mixture.  And for the first time, Gran not only told her how the Christmas pudding tradition started but also why and how the ingredients were used.  And not once did Mummy gently scold her for asking too many questions.  Hermione really felt like A Big Girl. 

 

As was their family’s custom, when the mixture was finally placed on the kitchen table, the wishing ritual began with the oldest member: Granddad.  Hermione waited as patiently as she could.  She already knew what she wished for.  She and Daddy had been going through a book about magical creatures, and one had caught her interest especially.  Of course, Hermione knew they weren’t real—the London Zoo didn’t have them—but in her heart of hearts, she hoped they could be.

 

“All right, young lady. It’s your turn!  You’ve been such a good girl to wait so patiently.”  Granddad placed her special chair right in front of the mixing bowl and lifted her onto it.  Hermione beamed as she looked into the bowl filled with colourful ingredients and smelling sweet and spicy.  She grasped the wooden spoon and stirred it once, clockwise.  She closed her eyes.

 

A sound of hooves and a musical whinny startled her.  Turning her head, she saw a dazzling white unicorn staring at her.  She held her breath in amazement.

 

Suddenly, the kitchen erupted in screams and panicked shouts.  Frightened, the unicorn began stomping about, knocking things over and upending furniture.  Hermione was bundled into someone’s arms and brought out of harm’s way.

 

“No!  No!  Stop!  You’re scaring her!”  Wriggling and writhing, Hermione managed to squirm out of those protective arms and ran into the kitchen.  She stood a few feet away from the restless unicorn and turned toward the adults.  “Get out of the kitchen and leave her alone!”  (When she was older, Hermione would think back and marvel at how unprotesting her family had been; normally, she would’ve been admonished for such rudeness.)

 

At present, she focussed on calming the distraught creature.  It had stopped its rampage but still eyed her warily.  Instinctively, she held out a hand and waited.  The unicorn slowly and hesitantly approached and nuzzled her hand.  Hermione giggled.  Thus reassured, the unicorn nuzzled her cheek and allowed her to stroke its fine, silvery mane. 

 

_You have a great capacity for kindness rarely seen in one so young.  Always keep that quality, child._

 

The unicorn stepped back, bowed, and then headed toward the back entrance to the garden.  Its graceful form was almost transparent by the time its snout touched the door, and Hermione knew that it would be invisible to anyone standing outside.

 

Sniffing, Hermione turned away and saw the mess in her gran’s kitchen.  She began crying in earnest when she realized that the unicorn’s frightened ruckus had knocked over the bowl of pudding, which now lay shattered on the floor, its contents splattered across the green-and-white linoleum.

 

***

 

** Red Horse **

 

Crookshanks had been cantankerous the entire trip home. 

 

He had growled and clambered across every available centimetre of the small back seat area.  He had hissed at the large, noisy crowds while they waited at the light.  And he had only condescended to be petted by her parents because Hermione had held him in such a way that swiping was difficult.

 

Luckily, Crookshanks approved of his new home and spent the next three days familiarizing himself with every nook and cranny.  Hermione’s mother was delighted to discover that their usual spider problem, an inevitable inheritance in old houses, had disappeared. 

 

On Christmas Eve, the family headed to Papa and Nana’s.  Crookshanks had grown accustomed to riding inside a car by now and was on his best behaviour when introduced to the rest of the family.  Hermione had worried that cousin Richard would rile her pet with his teasing, but Crookshanks quickly put him in his place.  The younger fry took that as a warning to leave him alone. 

 

When dinner was finally finished and the last fork placed satisfyingly down, Papa announced, “Well, I guess I should do my last duty and get the pud out.  You chickies help Nana clear the table.  Anyone not helping doesn’t get dessert!” 

 

There was a scramble.

 

As Hermione helped stack the dirty dishes so that they’d be easier to clean later, there was a “Ha!” followed by “You naughty puss!”  She ran to the pantry. 

 

Papa stood, holding the open door, staring down at a smug, ginger furball. 

 

“Crookshanks, what did you—Oh no!  The Christmas pudding!”

 

Indeed, the bowl had been tipped on its side atop its usual resting shelf, its emptied bowels on display and a trail of crumbs pointing to the perpetrator.

 

“You naughty boy!  Oh, Papa, I’m so sorry!” 

 

But Papa laughed.  “Well, you can tell Nana that her cooking skills are certainly appreciated—by old, young, and furry alike!  Oh, hush now, my starry-lass, no need to fret.  At least the pud didn’t go to waste, like two years ago.  Remember?  Your uncle Kenny brought over a brandy he claimed was some fancy French vintage, and it turned out to be a fake.  Even the squirrels wouldn’t touch it afterwards!  Now, go and tell Nana that you, your dad, and I are going for a drive to get some chocolate cake and ice cream or whatever the local market is offering.”

 

***

 

** Black Horse **

 

“Now, Hermione dear, you just keep stirring while I grab a few more ingredients.”

 

“No problem, Mrs—Molly.”  Even after being of age for three years, Hermione still had to remind herself that, in the wizarding world, it was the norm to call people by their first names unless they held significant titles (or were traditional-minded like Draco’s parents).

 

“Hello, lovely ladies!” called out two identical voices behind her.  Hermione turned and grinned at the twins in greeting.  The other girls paused in their activities to return salutations.

 

Hermione saw them make a beeline toward the tray on the kitchen table.  “George!  Fred!  Try not to eat them all—there are still a few of us who haven’t tried them!”

 

“Ta!”  They each grabbed a handful of gingerbread men and headed toward the sitting room.

 

“Where are you boys going with those?  You’d better not bring them upstairs!  You know how they attract rats!” 

 

“Relax, Mum!  We’ll just sit on the sofa.  Promise you won’t find any crumbs.”

 

“Oh, look!  Charlie’s here!  You get the equipment—”

 

“—And I’ll round up the rest of them.  Don’t worry, Hermione, we’ll return your pale pretty boy in one piece.”

 

Molly let out an indignant squawk as the tray of gingerbread men zoomed into the hands of the fast-retreating Fred.  “Those boys!  Don’t worry, dears, I’ve got three full tins sealed and _Sticky’d_ in the pantry.  I’ve learned that letting them nibble on a small batch is better than finding the whole lot vanquished.”

 

“I really don’t know how you keep up with them, Molly.”

 

“As Alastor Moody used to say, ‘Constant vigilance!’  Now that the grandchildren are here (and hopefully many more), that’s even more important!  Just this morning, when I checked the rooms, I saw that Fred and George had snuck the packages of dried fruits for the puddings into theirs!  They were stashed in George’s old school trunk that they think I don’t know how to unlock.  And two days ago, I caught them fiddling with their fireworks!  I told them to keep those out of reach of the little ones.”  The girls all sniggered.  Molly came beside Hermione and muttered, “You’d think that having girlfriends would curb their childish ways.  In any case, the sauce looks ready, dear, so put it to one side.  Now, let’s take stock of what’s been done and still needs doing.” 

 

With extra bodies to help, the final preparations for Christmas dinner were completed within half-hour.  And with plenty of daylight still remaining, the only thing left to make was the pudding.  Having had more disasters than successes, Hermione had eagerly accepted Molly’s invitation to help prepare the one for Christmas Day at The Burrow.  What she hadn’t realized, however, was that Molly didn’t make pud weeks ahead of time; instead, the Weasley matron made it on the day it was to be consumed.  She explained that this ensured the whole family would be home for the wishing ritual. 

 

Hermione observed with great interest as Molly delegated the preparatory tasks.  Fleur was put in charge of infusing the dried fruits with cognac.  (“She has a way with wines and such, so I let her work her magic,” Molly explained.)  Indeed, Hermione saw that Fleur’s alternating use of subtle Heating and Cooling Charms would accomplish the same goal as soaking overnight.  Ginny, Angelina, and Susan were, respectively, tasked with shaving suet, beating the eggs and measuring the sweeteners, and combining all the dry ingredients in the four bowls to be used for steaming.  With such a large group, one pud would never be enough.  Molly had eyed Luna and decided that zesting was the safest chore.  How she managed to make each strand look like snowflakes was anyone’s guess, though they were a lovely seasonal touch.  Hermione helped  first with roasting the almonds and then smashing them into smaller chunks with mortar and pestle. 

 

When the ingredients were all mixed together, Hermione looked in astonishment as Molly reached for a small bottle on the top shelf of her pantry.  Molly winked and showed her the label: Humphrey’s Culinary Ageing Potion.  She put one drop into each bowl. 

 

Finally, four magically cleaned Sickles were inserted into the mixtures.

 

Ginny called everyone inside, and the kitchen was soon crowded with eager and jostling bodies wanting to get at one of the bowls.  Then, the ritual completed, the surplus persons were shooed away so that the puddings could steam and age for the next several hours.

 

Dinner was a riotous affair.  Hermione noticed with relief and gratitude that the boys seemed to get along with Draco and that her boyfriend made valiant attempts to engage Arthur.  Molly spotted Draco’s efforts and gave Hermione a warm, approving smile.

 

The time of reckoning soon arrived. 

 

“Ron, be a dear and get the bottle of brandy from the cellar.”

 

Ron, caught in the act of kissing Susan, turned red and ran hastily off.  Draco joined in the snorting.  Hermione pinched him.  The snorting got louder.

 

When the brandy was portioned out, Molly invited Hermione, Susan, and Angelina to each take possession of a pud and set it aflame. 

 

Hermione saw Draco wink at her and took a deep breath.  Releasing the beloved blue-bell flames from her wand, she waited for the brandy to be set alight before pouring it over the pudding.  She detected an unusual odour as the alcohol burned away but supposed it was the vintage of the brandy.

 

**_BOOM!_ **

 

Before her hearing recovered, Hermione was almost blinded by a fireworks display.  As the sparks interacted and morphed into other shapes and colours, Hermione recognized the Wheezies products.  Attempting to ignore them, Hermione quickly discovered that she was covered in hot, sticky pudding.  So was everyone else.  The kitchen table, along with every available surface, had not been spared, either. 

 

And as sudden as the sounds and sights had appeared, they stopped.  Everyone sighed.  Then, despite the obvious fact that the duo had successfully stopped the ruckus their inventions caused, everyone glared at the twins, who were being held in place by their ears by a furious Molly.

 

“Explain yourselves!”

 

“It’s not a prank, Mum, we swear!”

 

“It was an accident!  Someone must’ve taken the fireworks from my trunk!”

 

“You shouldn’t’ve had any in the house to begin with!  I didn’t see any fireworks in your trunk, George Fabian Weasley, so where did you hide them?”

 

“I swear, they were in there this morning!  I double-checked before re-sealing so the sprogs couldn’t find them!”

 

“Yeah, and even if they did manage to open it, they’d’ve only seen some packs of dried fruits, which they don’t even like.”

 

Molly abruptly released their ears and ran toward the pudding-splattered pantry door.  She gasped when she found the packages of dried fruits she’d bought still sitting untouched on the shelf.

 

***

 

** Binky **

 

“Cliodna’s clagnuts!  What the hell happened to you?”  Draco closed her office door and then dragged her to her feet.  When he saw her trembling lips, he asked in a softer voice, “Did someone... get hurt?” 

 

“N-no.  I just didn’t sleep well last night.  Did—did you need something?”

 

“I hadn’t seen you all day, so I figured you must be buried under a pile of papers and need rescuing.  It’s a good thing I barged in.  The pile is suspiciously absent, but you certainly need a break.  Did you even eat lunch?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Come on, tell me what happened last night.  What’s got my stubborn Gryffindoress skulking in her office and licking her wounds?”

 

Hermione burst into tears, burying her face into his robes.  Bewildered, several agonizing seconds passed before Draco gathered enough wits to lock the door and then ensconce her in his lap while he commandeered her chair. 

 

When the sobbing calmed, Hermione managed, between sniffles, to relate the events of the previous evening.  The annual gift-wrapping party had started off swingingly.  Even though there were a record number of Christmas gifts to be wrapped, labelled, shrunk, and secretted into a sealed container, later to be Disillusioned, they made good time, all the while catching up with each other and having a good laugh over every new tale. 

 

The mood began to dampen during dinner.  Because of dietary restrictions resulting both from a much-shortened list of foods for several of the ladies with rampant pregnancy hormones and from the desire to provide said ladies with healthier foods, the variety of tastes and textures was lessened.  Even those not encumbered by impending offspring lacked good appetites when confronted with the meagre choices.

 

The crisis came to a head when everyone bit into Hermione’s Christmas pudding, made especially for the gathering, and realized that there was no alcohol inside. 

 

“The verdict was unanimous: the suet-free pud tasted all right, but I shouldn’t’ve left out the alcohol!  I told them that we’d agreed the menu would cater to the well-being of the mothers-to-be.  Said mothers were the loudest in whining that they didn’t think it’d apply to the dessert!”

 

“Well, you’re right, and they’re wrong.  It’s just their hormones talking.  Once they have control of their brains again, they’ll thank you.  But the complaints can’t be the reason you’re reduced to this sobbing mess.  You’ve stood your ground against much tougher foes, and you’ve always pulled through.  What else happened?”

 

Hermione sighed and mumbled incoherently.

 

“I’m sorry, my ears are attached to my head and not my chest.  You’re going to need to speak up.”

 

“I said I’m sorry.  For yesterday.  For yelling at you for bringing your perfectly molded pudding.  For accusing you of deprecating my abilities to produce a decent one.  For donating your pud anonymously to the women’s shelter near my parents’ dental practice.  I couldn’t fall asleep last night because I felt bad about the fight.”

 

Draco smirked and kissed the crown of her head.  “So, what you’re trying to say is that I was right: alcohol _is_ the point when it comes to Christmas pudding.”

 

Hermione sniffed.  “You were right this one time.  Don’t let it get to your head.”

 

Draco laughed.  “Well, I suppose a boring pudding is still better than an exploding one.  And that one clearly wasn’t your fault.”

 

Hermione gave a weak giggle.  “Poor Molly.  She’s transferred the Pepper-Up-infused brandy into a different and distinctive bottle and clearly labelled it to prevent it from being used again for any purpose except medicinal.  I think alighting the puds would’ve caused an explosion in any case; the Pepper-Up just made it that much more spectacular.”

 

“Indeed.  And I suppose we should all be grateful to Loony for dispelling the tension with her ridiculous comment.  I was ready to swear that my sense of humour had been dislodged and was stuck to the ceiling.”

 

“And you admit that they’re not such a bad lot, now that you’ve gotten to know them better?”

 

“It’s like you said: after the Troll incident, you couldn’t help becoming friends with Potty and Weasel King.  And you’re taking that to the grave, else I might be compelled to tell the Weaselette the _real_ reason you were late to her engagement party.”

 

“Prat.  Fine, your squishy-soft-innards secret is safe with me.  For now.”

 

“As if that’s enough to scare me.  You forget that I know many more embarrassing stories about you.  Your gran and nana are treasure troves of interesting anecdotes.”

 

“I _knew_ I should’ve waited until the wedding to introduce you to them.”

 

“And be scolded for such poor manners?  Even your dad would’ve had words.”

 

“Hmph.”

 

Draco tilted her chin up and kissed her.  “Time to go home.  I’ve got just the thing to cheer you up.”

 

When they arrived at her flat, Draco fixed her a cup of tea and excused himself.  He was in and out of the Floo within fifteen minutes.  In his hand, he held a wrapped package that looked suspiciously similar to the pudding that Hermione had donated to the women’s shelter.

 

When Draco handed her the plate of dark pudding, she examined it closely.  "It—it's in the shape of a house!"

 

"The manor, to be precise."

 

"Of course.  A round pud would be too plebeian for a Malfoy."

 

“What is the point of having all the fame—”

 

“Infamy.”

 

“— _fame_ , fortune, and power in the world if you’re going to be dull?”

 

“Oh, may the gods exonerate one of the stuffiest, most condescending, status-quo-adhering families in the world from dullness and predictability.  Never mind hypocrisy.”

 

“Hey!  And what does it say about you that you’re marrying into it?”

 

“I’ve decided to sacrifice myself for the greater good and give said family a complete overhaul from the bottom up.  I’ve already succeeded in making the heir like Weasleys.  What are you—?  Oh, _stop!_   Hahahahaha!”

 

When Draco finally stopped tickling her, he mock-growled.  “Take that back.”

 

“I take nothing back.  You admitted it yourself.  And look what you made me do to the pud.” 

 

They both looked toward the spot where the plate had landed.  Only to see a smug, orange furball staring back at them.  They laughed.

 

“He does love his Christmas pudding, don’t you, Crookshanks?”

 

“Well, he’ll certainly not eat any other now that he’s tried the Malfoy secret recipe.”

 

“So you claim.”

 

“I can do better than that: I can prove.  Don’t move.”   Draco disappeared into the kitchen again.  When he sat down beside her, he practically force-fed Hermione a piece of pudding.

 

“Mmmm.  Fine, this _is_ good.  And it doesn’t taste like brandy.  Or suet.”

 

Draco sniffed disdainfully.  “Of course not.  Father uses the finest Muscat de Frontignan.  And who wants the heavy, meaty taste of suet in a pudding, anyway?  We use butter.”

 

“But… when I was looking up substitutes for suet, all the experts say that butter’s low melting point would ruin pud because it melts and sinks to the bottom of the bowl before the whole thing can set properly.  The only other possible substitute besides vegetable suet—which I don’t like because it still makes pud too heavy—is vegetable shortening, but I found out the hard way that it ruins the flavour.”

 

“You forget we’re wizards.”

 

“But—”

 

“I can’t divulge any more until you’re a full-fledged Malfoy.”

 

“Hmph.”

 

Draco nuzzled her neck.  “Only a few more months.”

 

“Oh, my god!  The cake-tasting appointment!  I forgot to confirm with them today!”

 

“Relax, Hermione—”

 

“How can I possibly relax?  I was supposed to confirm today or we’ll have to wait _months_ for another appointment!  And we can’t have a wedding without a cake—”

 

“I took care of it.”

 

“Your parents would never let me forget—What do you mean you took care of it?”

 

“I confirmed the appointment.”

 

“How?”

 

“By owl.”

 

“No, I mean how did you know I hadn’t done it?”

 

“So, this is what sleeplessness reduces you to.  I’ll have to remember that.  You made duplicates of your colour-coded wedding binder and gave one each to your mum, my mum, and me.  And you cast a Protean Charm on them so we wouldn’t duplicate tasks.  You also embedded reminder alarms.  The alarm went off in my copy today, so I sent Giauzar off.”

 

“Who says competence is overrated?  For this good deed, I won’t tell the girls about how you tripped on your dress robes and caused the dessert table to collapse at your cousin Dahlia’s wedding…”  Hermione threw her arms around him and kissed him soundly. 

 

***

 

** Knight **

 

Draco kissed the top of Hermione’s head as they watched their son sleep.  “You know, next week is pudding-making time,” he murmured.

 

“Oh, that’s right!  And Rory can watch his daddy make pud and start learning.  Try not to overwhelm him with information—Malfoy or not, he _is_ only sixteen months old.”

 

“Actually, I was thinking that you should make it this year.”

 

“What?!”  Hermione was momentarily distracted when Riordan stirred.  She patted and soothed him until he settled once more.  Then, she dragged Draco out of the nursery.  “That’s not funny, Draco Lucius Malfoy!”

 

“I’m not having you on!  I think you should try your hand.”

 

“Draco, you were only just ‘conferred’ this ‘honour’ last Christmas.  I don’t want your father to regret his decision already.”

 

“He won’t.  I’ll be helping.  And between us, surely we have enough Potions acumen to detect faulty ingredients and unstable conditions that could lead to disaster?”

 

“But you _know_ what tends to happen whenever I try my hand—Even that disaster with the poorly Transfigured Whiz-bangs—”

 

“They weren’t all failures.  You’ve always prided yourself on not giving up on anything, so why this reticence?”

 

She huffed.  “All right, I’ll try.”  She wound her arms around his neck.  “I know why you’re doing this, and I appreciate it.  Just, let’s get some spare ingredients in case you need to stage an intervention—or start from scratch.”

 

Draco kissed her.  “It’ll be fine.  The recipe has been successfully replicated for generations.”

 

“By the way, you never told me how you explained about the two puds that ‘went missing’ the year I made that disastrous non-alcoholic one.  I suppose Lucius delayed giving you pud duty until now as part of your punishment.”

 

“No.  It’s always been tradition to wait until the heir has been birthed to hand over the reins.  As to your other query, Father never knew the puddings were gone because I used a replication spell.  Sorted into Slytherin, not Hufflepuff.  Ow!  Shall we go ingredient-gathering tomorrow?”

 

So, with both trepidation and excitement, Hermione began preparatory work on Stir-up Sunday.  She tasted the dried fruits to ensure they’d soaked properly in the Muscat.  She made sure the eggs and citruses were at room temperature before preparing them.  She didn’t even need Draco’s reminder to put the timed stasis charm on the butter—the secret to preventing it from melting prematurely while the pud steamed. 

 

Hermione grinned while she worked, imagining Lucius working away in the kitchens, flour in his hair and hands sticky from the wet ingredients, refusing to let the house-elves assist.  Draco had told her that this was the one family recipe that was never left to the house-elves to make.  She wondered how shocked the ancestors would be to find Draco deviating so much from tradition.  It was a matter of pride that only the heirs were taught and would teach in turn.  Spouses _could_ assist, but the onus fell on the scion.  Of course, each head-of-family had seen fit to modify things to suit them.  Draco’s grandfather Abraxas had been the first to insist on more than one pudding—to indulge his sweet tooth.  Lucius had seen no harm in continuing the new practice.

 

The first pud came out perfectly.  Thus encouraged, Hermione, with Draco’s help, prepared the other puds to be stored and sampled throughout the next year. 

 

On Christmas Day, Hermione bundled Rory warmly and handed him to Draco.  Rory was still too young to travel by Floo, Portkey, and Apparition, so father and son would fly.  Their departure gave Hermione an extra half hour to double-check that she remembered everything before she Floo’d to the manor. 

 

Doing a final check to make sure the half dozen puds were secure in the carrying container—and a slice placed beside Crookshanks’ water dish so he would not be tempted to raid the pantry—Hermione grabbed some Floo powder.

 

Once she had arrived and informed Eeny that the top pud was the one being served during luncheon, Hermione noticed that a doting Lucius had already indulged his grandson.  Shreds of wrapping paper littered the floor by the tree.

 

“Don’t worry, Hermione. Lucius showed remarkable restraint by only allowing Rory the one gift.”  Narcissa greeted her with a warm hug, which Hermione returned.

 

“So long as Rory understands that these indulgences only exist at his grandparents’ houses, I’m learning not to be too fussed.”

 

Hermione was nervous and distracted throughout luncheon.  She kept thinking about the pud.  Unlike most families who waited until after the huge Christmas dinner to serve pud, the Malfoys had always eaten it after the light midday meal so that its richness could be properly appreciated.  Unbeknownst to Draco, Hermione had made two extra puds that combined her gran’s recipe with the Malfoy one.  She had cheated by adding Ageing Potion to one of them so that she could make sure the new flavours worked in more than theory.  Crookshanks had approved, but his opinion was no guarantee.  So now, Hermione crossed her fingers.

 

After the plates were cleared and Miny had placed the miniature-manor-shaped pud in the centre, Hermione collected her bottle of liqueur.  As the alcohol burned off in bright, sparkling flames, a warm, citrusy-spicy aroma was released.  Hermione noted with satisfaction Lucius’ widened eyes.

 

“You’ve chosen something different from the Muscat, Hermione.  And you’ve added cinnamon!  There is no mistaking that distinctive smell and the flames.  Very festive, indeed.” 

 

Hermione handed out generous slices of pud and sat apprehensively as her family bit into her new recipe.  She let out an audible sigh of relief when, recovering from yet another surprise, Lucius smiled and heartily dug into the rest of his pud. 

 

Draco had paused to stare questioningly at her before deciding that answers could wait until he’d finished enjoying his dessert.  When his plate emptied, he informed his parents that not only had Hermione been responsible for making all the puddings this year, she’d managed to change the recipe without his knowledge.

 

Lucius smiled at Hermione.  “Well, Hermione, I must admit: I never thought that our recipe could be improved, but you’ve certainly disproved that.  The dried figs are a lovely addition, and there is a definite cranberry taste from the sultanas and currants.  I confess that I’m at a loss to name the liqueur.  It’s obvious you didn’t merely infuse a bottle of spirits with berries.”

 

“It’s an American cranberry liqueur called Craneberry, which is sweetened with blackstrap molasses.  I substituted the orange molasses with a fig one.  My gran’s recipe always had dried cranberries and figs, and I thought the flavours would be nice additions.”

 

“Indeed!  So this is more truly a figgy pudding than our recipe.”

 

Hermione grinned, delighted that Lucius understood the reference. 

 

“And I think I’ve finally discerned the citrus liqueur you used to flambé.  The island of Corfu is famous for its kumquat liqueurs.  I’d initially dismissed their products because of their low alcohol content, but you must have found a solution.”

 

“It’s quite simple, actually: I Floo-called the distillery and asked if they could do a rush order of a small bottle with the requisite percentage of alcohol.”

 

Draco laughed.  “Seems you’ve embraced the family’s belief that dullness is tedious.  What I still can’t figure out is how you could’ve made this that Sunday without me noticing the modified ingredients.  I was there the entire process.”

 

“I made it the following Tuesday.  I took the day off.  And I simply removed all traces of my experiment before you returned home.”

 

“Didn’t I say that she had Slytherin tendencies, Mum?”

 

“To be married to you, it’s a minimum requirement.”

 

“Da!”

 

“You see, Rory agrees with me.”

 

“I think he just wants another piece of pudding.”

 

“I think not.”

 

Rory pouted and tears threatened. 

 

Narcissa came quickly to the rescue.  “Come, my roaring-Rorykins, you and Mémère are getting some shortbread biscuits.  Meeny just baked them today.  We’ll bring some back for Mummy, Daddy, and Pépère, won’t we?”  They exited.

 

“Meanwhile, Pépère and Daddy would like another slice of pudding, _s’il vous plait_ , Mummy.”

**Author's Note:**

> The original prompt was: Christmas pudding (of course).


End file.
